Ropes
by Morning. xx
Summary: Short Hagrid drabble. Set in the hours after the final battle, on Hogwarts ground. Hagrid reflects.


Well, this is a Hagrid drabble, written in a fit of boredom. I don't own Harry Potter, and probably never will. But I can dream...I chose the character by closing my eyes, and plopping a finger down on my keyboard. H Hagrid. So here he is!

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Fire whirls in an entrancing dance from its ballroom in the grate. A hand the size of a dustbin lid throws an ungainly hunk of wood into the hearth, making the dancers fall into swoons, and suddenly leap back into their pirouettes with a frenzied fervour. The hand retreats to a knee, attached to a man five times as wide as a normal one, and nearly twice as high.

"It's all changin', righ' Fang?" the giant man rumbles to his companion on the floor.

The creature addressed, Fang, lifts his head, and gives a strange noise of agreement. Fang pants, and wags his tail, hoping that the most recent use of his name is promising a treat, or seven.

From his vantage point near the rafters of the ceiling, the man can see outside his window. He gazes at the ruts in his lovely green grass, and the footprints that mill around the grounds, as far as he can see.

Fang whimpers, and heaves his old body up off the ground. The beast then proceeds to limp over to the giant man, and lies his head on his lap. The man absently scratches the beast's head, and brings one hand up to his face, to scratch at the irritatingly itch blood clot that parted his eyebrow in a neat two. Well, as neat as a forest-like brow can be when cut in two.

The hand recedes from the large face, cursing at the blood that stained his fingers, like the juice of so many berries. He wipes the bloody sunbursts of colour off on his pants, and lifts the dustbin-sized appendage to his face again, to stroke at the unruly black thicket of hair that was his beard. His fingers tangle in the stiff hairs, happily indulging in the old, and bad habit.

His eyes rove again to the decimated lands beyond his comfortable little hut, and he sighs, thinking of the work needed to repair the green lawns. The big man's body plays host to a number of squeaks, and creaks as he stands, Fang's head sliding off his knee.

With the grace of a drunken acrobat, the giant lumbers across the small wooden space between his seat and the door. His warm beetle-black eyes flicker to the fire for a moment, and his hand clutches the handle of something in his heavy-looking moleskin coat. The giant straigtens, and pulls out a pink umbrella, while all the while glancing surreptiosly around as he murmurs, _"Aguamenti"_. The fire is doused in a wave of clear water that erupted from the umbrella tip.

And the giant is off again, walking as though his heavy moleskin coat was like water, rather than thick, solid fur. His feet, in their boots the size of dolphins leave large brown footprints in the grass. Certainly not the largest though, as the man passes a footprint the size of his incredible long, and stout arm.

There are some people on the lawns, picking disagreeably through the rubble, and –as the man noted sadly- acromantulae bodies. Every few moments, one of the other people will plunge to the ground, shouting in a hoarse voice about a new body. More often than not, they would recoil from the limp corpse, and levitate it, rather than sully their hands with the dirtiness of evil. The body would lift, and the head would loll back on the neck, silver mask disguising the features.

Wails and sobs were drowned out by the victorious screaming that rumbled from the castle before the giant. The castle's topmost towers seemed to pierce the silver sphere of eminence, as the moon rose to the peak of her night time journey. A soft head pushed itself under the man's hands, and Fang gave a begging whimper.

"You ol' dog! C'mere, you." The giant falls to his knees, taking the willing dog into his grasp.

The tears are flowing like an ocean now, beating their warm saltiness against the sand of his beard. The dog lets out a howl of mourning, his little face over the giant's shaking shoulders. The giant throws his voice up into a wordless wail. The two songs twine in a rope of sadness, strung by others all over the grounds.

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